


and plenty of seeds in a lemon

by brawlite



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Deception, Drug Dealing, Drugs, Hints of previous Steve/Jonathan/Nancy, M/M, Manipulation, The Lost Boys (minus those specific boys), and that Vibe is santa carla from the lost boys, anyway: it’s not important!, are there canonically vampires here? who knows!, features: zero vampires, lying, what’s important is the Vibe, why does this take place in fictional santa carla? who knows!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-03 23:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15829026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: Steve is absolutely happy in California, with the weird palm trees and the salty ocean breeze and the grainy sand always between his toes. He really is. He doesn’t miss small town Indiana at all.(Alternatively: Billy pretends to be a drug dealer so that he can see more of his hot neighbor Steve. Steve apparently thinks his customer service isspectacular. Not that it's all too hard, with just one client, butwhatever.)





	and plenty of seeds in a lemon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lipgallagher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipgallagher/gifts).



> title from _plenty of girls in the sea_ , by mgmt
> 
> this is pretty much absolutely and completely a lovesong to [lipgallagher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipgallagher/pseuds/lipgallagher) and her amazing fics and that’s it, sorry

Look, it’s not that Steve doesn’t know _anyone_ in Santa Carla.

It’s just that the only people he knows are all _friends of friends_. And Steve isn’t really -- about that. Or, well, technically sometimes he is. But only when he’s feeling _really_ lonely or particularly sociable or he’s looking to score some free drinks or drugs.

But generally, though, he absolutely isn’t about that.

Besides. It makes him feel a little bit like he can’t make friends of his own, when he’s palling around with people who are only tolerating him because Nancy and Jonathan said _pretty please,_ or because Steve is looking _particularly lonely_ that day, like a lost puppy and they feel sorry for him. Or whatever. It’s not like he _can’t_ make friends. Steve was, like, king of his high school, back in the day. Captain of the basketball team and unanimous prom king and _everything_. He even dated pretty much every hot girl that attended Hawkins High. Well -- maybe _dated_ is a strong word. He at least got to know them _real_ well, though.

But like, you know what they say about people who peak in high school. Not that Steve did. But maybe, also, he _might_ have.

Or -- something.

Anyway.

It’s not that Steve doesn’t know anyone.

It’s just that he also doesn’t really _know_ anyone.

Like, he knows the barista in the coffee shop two blocks down from his crappy apartment. They even share the same name, and Steve says _hey Steve_ pretty much _every day_ so, that counts. Right?

And he knows the people he works with, even though he kind of hates every single one of them in new and exciting ways every day. But he knows them. He even socializes with them, sometimes, too. Like, goes out for drinks after work or goes laser tagging, like it’s the _nineties_ again.

He knows his neighbors in 3a and 3b, who arguably have much nicer apartments than him, but probably only because they keep them clean and they know how to decorate. And also they totally seem to know more what they’re _doing_ in life than Steve, who still sleeps on a mattress on the ground and whose idea of decorating is nailing a tapestry into the wall and calling it a day.

Some street vendor told him to do that, actually. He kind of _hates_ his mint-green and pink mandala tapestry but -- it’s better than staring at chipping, sterile white walls, he guesses.

Anyway, Steve’s balcony is much bigger than 3a’s and 3b’s, even though he only has a one-bed, so.

He’s kind of winning.

Even if he doesn't _know_ know anyone.

\--

California isn’t really exactly like he pictured it, either.

The whole thing had been kind of a pipe dream. An irrational decision he made one night in a fit of spite and hopelessness.

 _I’m gonna move out to California_ , Steve had said, small town Indiana closing in around him like a vice, choking out everything inside him until he felt like his guts were rotting away and black with decay.

 _That’s nice, sweetie_ , his mom had said.

His dad just laughed. And laughed and laughed.

A week later, they sat Steve down and _Talked_ about his future. About his upcoming job at his dad’s company. About his life they had all but planned out for him, probably even down to the names of his future kids.

And, like -- no.

That was just way too much.

He probably wouldn’t have even thought twice about California had his dad not laughed. Had his mom not tried to _pick out his wedding colors_. But they had, and Steve was rendered suddenly unable to let the idea go.

So, when summer drew to a close and all his friends packed up for college, Steve packed up his car, too -- at night, while his parents were sleeping. He left before they woke up, heading west, toward _Sunny and Beautiful_ California, where all his dreams could come true.

And, yeah -- California? Not really exactly what the postcards made it out to be.

The highway had spat him out a stone’s throw away from a place called _Santa Carla_. The billboards, stating: _Santa Carla, 10 Miles_ , had been covered in graffiti and looked like something from Steve’s desperate corn-fed fever dreams. So, he had followed them. Had driven past one that claimed, on the back that he'd seen in his rear-view: _Santa Carla, Murder Capital of the World!_ and Steve had _smiled_.

And that vibe? Like -- kind of creepy. But also kind of cool, too.

Very different than small town Hawkins, where the most notable crime is a house getting TP’d on Halloween. Though there _was_ that incident a few years back with the toxic chemicals and the since-shut-down government lab, but only a couple people died, and barely anyone even _remembers_ that anymore.

So.

 _Murder Capital of the World_ : fun and exciting.

Or it _had been_ fun. For, like, two weeks. _Max_.

Now, every time there’s a weird noise at night, Steve wakes up, jolts nearly all the way out of bed, and then can’t sleep for the rest of the night.

And it sucks. Because California is _loud_. It’s _full_ of weird noises in the same way that Hawkins totally lacked them. Which means that Steve’s tired, like, all the time _and_ now he’s paranoid about getting killed.

Because as funny as graffiti on the back of a billboard is, all the _Missing, Missing, Missing_ pictures on every milk carton, on every bulletin board, in every newspaper are kinda starting to get to him. It makes it real in a way that garish colors and teenage rebellion just -- doesn’t.

So. Maybe California kind of sucks a little bit. And maybe he’s a little lonely. And maybe he’s going to get murdered. But Steve isn’t about to call it quits -- he’s _way_ too stubborn for that. He’s gotta last at _least_ a year. If not two. At least until his parents stop sounding affronted and all-knowing on the phone, just _waiting_ for him to come crawling back, tail between his legs.

\--

Steve meets Billy when he’s running on pretty much zero sleep. He’s gotten some cat-naps in between shifts at work (which really means he was just sleeping on his desk, because data entry is _boring_ , but he doesn’t have a degree yet, so -- temping it is).

He’s eating seventy-cent grocery-store-brand Easy-Mac straight out of the pot when someone knocks on his door. Pounds on it, really.

Steve jumps. Not because he’s _paranoid_ , but because he’s a _realist_. Because no one’s turned up missing this week, according to Twitter, so it’s pretty much only a matter of time.

The pounding continues for a long time, until Steve realizes that a murderer _probably_ wouldn’t knock.

So, he opens the door, tonguing cheesy pasta off the wooden spoon he brought with him to the door. Because, like, he’s _hungry_ , okay?

There’s a guy on the other side that Steve’s never even seen before. Probably. Steve tries not to actually _look_ at the people around him, because then they’ll look _back_ at him, because everyone always seems to have that sixth-sense for when someone’s staring at them except for _him_ and _that’s_ not fair, so. He just doesn’t look.

He kind wishes he _had_ looked a little more often, though, because, well, he wouldn’t mind looking at this guy a little bit _more_.

The guy scowling on the other side of Steve’s door is mostly shirtless, for all intents and purposes. He’s got, like, the _most ridiculous_ Hawaiian shirt on, but it’s unbuttoned and hanging loose over a _very tan_ eight-pack. So -- it works for him, is all Steve is saying. Even though it's hideous. Even though it defeats the purpose of a shirt entirely. And maybe Steve wouldn’t mind seeing this whole _look_ more often. Scowl included.

The guy squints into Steve’s apartment and then frowns even harder. Like he's missing something. Like he's judging all of Steve's dirty dishes and clothes strewn about the place.

“Yeah, can I _help_ you?” Steve asks, because normally, by now, whoever knocking would have said something or tried to sell him something. And while this guy is like, model hot, Steve has mac and cheese on his coffee table that is absolutely getting colder by the second.

“You’re not the one blasting Alt-J,” the guy says. Like that’s a _surprise_. Like Steve looks like he’s the kind of guy who would blast Alt-J loud enough to make every wall in this shitty complex vibrate.

“No,” Steve says. “That’s 3a,” because that’s always 3a. 3a barely listens to anything that’s not Alt-J or, strangely, Dave Matthews Band. At this point, Steve barely even _hears_ it, he’s so good at tuning it out by now.

Mystery solved.

The guy doesn’t leave, though. He takes a step closer to Steve, pokes his head directly into Steve’s apartment and goes, “Wait. Is that _Duran Duran_?”

He could not sound _quite_ so judgemental, Steve thinks.

Because it _is_ Duran Duran and it’s being played at a _totally reasonable volume,_ thanks. You can barely even hear it over the Alt-J coming in through the windows and again through the walls.

“Did you need anything else?” Steve asks, licking the spoon absolutely clean of fake cheese powder while the guy just _watches_ him.

“Is it the 80’s? Did I go back in time? I didn’t think Duran Duran still _existed_.”

“They put out their last album in 2015,” Steve says, even though he’s totally listening to _Astronaut_ , which came out way before that, but still isn't quite _that_ vintage.

Even Jonathan says his music taste is _eclectic_ , which is probably saying a lot, because Jonathan doesn’t even listen to _music_. Sometimes he just listens to _sounds_ and gets real judgy about it.

The guy leans against Steve’s doorway, which is absolutely not any closer to him leaving, and says, “I’m Billy. I live in 2c.”

Billy stomps on the ground, like Steve needs _that_ to know that 2c is directly underneath 3c, like he’s stupid, or directionally challenged, or something. Which -- he just _met_ Steve.

“Okay,” Steve says, hand on his door. “Nice to meet you, Billy.”

He starts edging the door closed.

Billy’s foot gets in the way of the door because he puts it there. He’s not even wearing _real shoes_. Just tattered old Rainbows.

He says, “And you are?” with a smirk. Like Steve isn’t actively trying to close the door in his face. Or on his foot.

“In the middle of eating dinner,” Steve says.

Billy grins. And damn, those are some pearly whites. His eyes get all small and wrinkly and it’s a good look on him, even if it doesn’t look quite _nice._ He looks more like a shark than anything else, with all those teeth.

“Your name, pretty boy. That’s what I’m fishing for,” Billy says, slow. Like Steve doesn’t get it.

Steve gets it, alright. But he’s very tired and he’s also wearing arguably his ugliest sweatpants and an old homecoming shirt and he feels like _shit_ , so. He’s definitely not impressing _anyone_.

“Steve,” Steve says. Then, he nudges Billy’s foot with his own, stomping maybe just a _little bit_ on bare toes, until Billy pulls back, opens his mouth -- and Steve slams the door in his face.

Billy pounds on the door for a while. He shouts, but Steve can’t hear him over the Alt-J anyway. He can’t even tell what song it is, but they all sound the same, so.

Eventually, Billy gives up.

Steve’s mac and cheese is already cold, but there’s really no point in reheating it because it’s going to be crap anyway. It doesn’t reheat well. He eats it, begrudgingly.

So, he could’ve actually probably talked to Billy for longer, but.

Life’s just like that, sometimes.

\--

“How’s the weather?” Jonathan asks over the phone.

Steve doesn’t really understand why Jonathan even bothers calling him because they both clearly _hate_ talking on phones and Jonathan doesn’t even really _like_ Steve, he just feels obligated. Because of the whole Nancy thing, and all of that.

Though, there _was_ that one time that Jonathan and Steve got handsy in the back of Steve’s brand new BMW after Jonathan scored some weed off one of the college drop-outs that hang out at the laundromat.

And there was _also_ that time that Steve cornered Jonathan and Nancy under the mistletoe. He had kissed Nancy real nice, first -- and then Jonathan, too. Jonathan had tasted like bitter coffee and gummy bears and Steve had clumsily and viciously backed him up against the wall while Nancy laughed at the two of them, fingers curled around Steve’s shoulder, pressing him forward when he thought he really should be pulling back.

Then, there was that night before the two of them left for college and Steve -- well, they all drank a lot of really cheap booze and smoked a lot of even cheaper bud, and Steve doesn’t even _remember_ most of that night.

He definitely remembers the headache the morning after, though. And the way their tail-lights disappeared into the flat Indiana fog. The way the hickeys on his neck eventually faded, with time.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Steve says. “Sunny and beautiful, or whatever.”

“You’re really selling it,” Jonathan says, probably about Steve’s tone. Which -- yeah. Fair.

“Fuck you,” Steve says. “Did you call for any reason, or?”

“Just saying hey,” Jonathan says. Like he doesn’t have anything better to do, like take pictures of dead birds or abandoned buildings or naked people.

Which -- is maybe not totally fair, because Jonathan is _good_ at photography.

It’s just that he’s also kind of _that guy_ and Steve hates _those guys_ even though he totally is one of them, just, like, a different _kind_.

“How’s the weather _there_?” Steve asks, because apparently that’s what they do, now. They talk about the weather.

Because they never really _talked_ before. They just glared at each other and occasionally hooked up because that’s totally normal, right?

“It’s good,” Jonathan says, clearly uncaring that they’ve both turned into boring middle aged people making small-talk in an elevator. Steve can practically _hear_ the muffled slow jazz. Then again, maybe that’s the _lonely day relaxing lo-fi jazz synthwave beats_ playlist trucking along on his computer a couple feet away.

“Is it cold there, yet?” Steve asks, turning his phone onto speaker so that he can start to pull together a pile of laundry from -- everywhere, really. Kind of because he needs to do laundry, but mostly because he wants something to do with his hands.

“It’s October,” Jonathan huffs. “Of course it’s cold.”

“It doesn’t really get cold here, apparently,” Steve says. “Apparently it gets windy, though. Steve says I should get a windbreaker.”

“Who’s Steve?” Jonathan asks. Steve can hear the tentative smile in his voice. Steve _wants_ to pretend it’s because he’s laughing at the name, but he _knows_ , he can just _tell_ , that it’s because Jonathan’s proud he’s made a friend, or something.

And, like -- yikes.

Steve maybe doesn’t have the heart to tell him that _Steve_ is just his regular barista who he chats with sometimes. But who is also, maybe, sort of the closest thing he has to a friend here right now.

Also yikes.

“But, like, when do you _actually_ need to wear a windbreaker?” Steve asks. “If it’s cold, I’m just going to wear a _jacket_ like every other sane person.”

He’s not a yuppie on a boat, or whatever.

Mostly, because he doesn’t _have_ a boat.

Jonathan laughs, apparently derailed enough that he’ll leave Steve alone about it. He might end up inferring something _else_ , but it doesn’t matter if Jonathan tells Nancy that he’s hooking up with some guy named Steve. It’s probably better than Jonathan telling Nancy he’s _worried Steve still has no friends_.

Or worse, that Steve _kind of_ considers his barista his friend.

\--

“Did you just move in?” Steve asks, when he finds Billy in the laundry room of the building, smoking a joint on top of his dryer. Immediately upon seeing him, Steve has the distinct urge to walk right back out of the laundry room -- Billy looks _that much_ like he owns the place, like he doesn’t want company.

But Steve has _finally_ gotten around to doing laundry, even though he’s been meaning to for like a week.

“I’ve lived here for, like, _three_ years,” Billy says, like Steve’s dumb. But his posture shifts a little, like Steve’s maybe welcome to be down here, too.

And -- okay.

“Yeah, well. I’ve never seen you before. And you live right below me?”

Steve starts shoving his clothes into one of the washers, the farthest one away from Billy. He kind of wants to make this whole thing tactical. Very _get in, get out, get away from Billy_.

What can he say? The guy makes him a little nervous.

“Sad you haven’t noticed my handsome face?” Billy asks, breathing smoke out toward the ceiling, slow.

And yeah, okay, _maybe_. But also maybe just that Steve didn’t realize he was _quite_ so unobservant. He’s _totally_ going to be the next person to get murdered.

“I’ve lived here for over _two months._ ”

“Yeah. I know,” Billy says, leaning forward, elbows resting on his crossed knees. He grins. “I saw you moving in.”

All of Steve’s _other_ neighbors introduced themselves. Billy just -- watched, apparently.

Steve feels a flush, annoyed and weirdly embarrassed, spread over his cheeks. It’s a good thing the basement is so dimly lit, so grungy that he doesn’t feel too exposed. Not like he did in his doorway, under the harsh glow of the fluorescent hallway lights.

“Want some?” Billy asks.

When Steve looks up from closing his washing machine, Billy’s holding the joint out to him like some sort of peace offering. The look on his face says _I’m being nice_ , but the toothy grin that accompanies it says that saying yes comes at a price.

“I’m good, thanks,” Steve says.

“Don’t be a party pooper,” Billy says.

“Doesn’t seem like much of a party to me.”

Billy laughs. When he does, his eyes crinkle a little at the corners, squinting out into the dim light of the room. “It is now that you’re here,” Billy says.

Which, you know, _shouldn’t_ make Steve feel special. But.

Well -- Steve doesn’t really get much attention, these days. So maybe he’s a little starved for it, okay?

“I’m not really, uh --”

“Into this kind of party?” Billy says, eyeing the joint.

“I was _gonna_ say _getting high in a grungy laundry room with some guy I barely even know_ , but,” Steve says.

“Doesn’t look like you’ve really got all that many other options,” Billy says. Like he _knows_ that Steve doesn’t have any friends. Like he knows that this really _is_ Steve’s best option for not being a total fucking recluse.

Steve groans. Billy’s definitely not _wrong_.

\--

“Do you have, like, _a guy_?” Steve says.

He’s sitting on top of his own dryer as it thrums underneath him, just finishing one of its spin cycles. It’s warm underneath him, which should be oppressive for the heat of the city, but in the basement it’s actually quite cool, so the warmth is kinda nice.

Billy grins and leans a little closer. He’s repositioned himself onto the dryer next to Steve, feet propped up on Steve’s, so that they can more easily pass the joint back and forth. So much for Steve trying to keep his distance, huh?

“Are you asking me if I’m seeing anyone, pretty boy?”

Steve flushes. He can feel it over his face, hot and uncomfortable, like he just downed too many shots of tequila in a row but minus the pleasant spins.

“ _No_ ,” Steve says. “That’s -- _absolutely not_ what I was asking you.”

It really wasn’t.

But, like, _maybe_ Steve wants to know the answer to that one anyway? Just out of pure curiosity.

But he’s not going to _say_ that.

“For this,” Steve says, snatching the joint out of Billy’s hand. They’re on their second, which makes Steve figure that Billy at least has some sort of supplier and didn’t just snag it off one of his friends or something. “Do you have a guy?”

“Are you looking to score?” Billy asks.

“Uh. Yeah, I guess. Kinda casually,” Steve says.

Billy pauses for a moment, considering. Like it’s some sort of _effort_ to share his supplier or to pass on a phone number. Then, he grins again. Now that Steve is looser and less tense, he can appreciate the look of Billy’s pearly whites a bit more. He feels like he’s a second away from Billy just leaning over and biting him out of the blue, like it’s a totally normal thing. Steve wouldn’t even be _surprised_.

This man is _totally_ a predator -- in a carnivorous chasing-his-prey kind of way -- and Steve is kinda _into it._

“I could hook you up,” Billy says. “If you ask me _real nicely_.”

Steve shouldn’t. He knows better than to poke bears with sticks. Something tells him that he should leave Billy alone, because the more he gives in, the more he lets Billy have of himself, the less likely he is to ever be able to rid himself of Billy in the future.

But Steve is dumb.

Everyone is _always_ telling him that he’s _real stupid_. So.

“ _Pretty please_?”

\--

Billy doesn’t exactly _hook Steve up_.

Not really, anyway.

He just gives Steve his number and tells him to hit him up anytime he needs drugs.

So, maybe Billy doesn’t _have_ a guy -- Billy _is_ the guy.

Though, obviously, Billy _does_ have a guy, because he’s not like some _wholesaler_ or someone who is growing weed out of his apartment. He obviously gets it from somewhere, some bulk-purchaser, or whatever -- Steve doesn’t pretend to know _how_ the drug trade works, just that it _does_. The important part is that the weed ends up in Steve’s hands after some minimal interaction with Billy and that’s that. Doesn’t matter where it came from, or how Billy got it.

The sort of unfortunate part is that Steve has to _keep_ dealing with Billy for that whole thing to happen.

But it’s kind of worth it.

Sort of, anyway.

Because even though Billy _screams_ danger, he’s nice to look at and his weed is _good_ and, like, Steve doesn’t exactly have anyone else to hang out with, so.

It’s _almost_ like he’s socializing.

Nancy and Jonathan would be proud.

\--

It kinda sucks that Billy’s, like, actually _really_ _good_ at his job, though.

He always gets back to Steve right away, always delivers the goods promptly and never leaves Steve hanging. He charges a pretty fair price, too. Even gives Steve stuff for free, sometimes, if he’s feeling generous.

It means that Steve’s really got no impetus to find a _new_ dealer. One that isn’t creepy or isn’t painfully good looking. One that doesn’t flirt with Steve constantly.

Whenever Steve brings up just how _good_ at customer service Billy is, Billy just _grins_ like he wants to eat Steve up and tells him ‘ _Anything for you, pretty boy,’_ which is annoying in so _many_ ways for so _many_ reasons.

One of those being that Steve _knows_ that Billy says that to _everyone_ , which is somehow made even _more_ annoying by the fact that Steve knows he shouldn’t be annoyed about it in the first place.

So, like, he _guesses_ he’s kinda still in the market for a new dealer, but also -- not. At all.

\--

 _Nice day_ , barista-Steve tells him, without an ounce of sarcasm in his tone. It’s currently bucketing rain outside and Steve is absolutely drenched, still dripping water onto the floor. Barista-Steve is kinda a weird guy. Not that Steve can really _judge,_ because he just spent three days binge-watching every Youtube documentary-adjacent thing about casually-documented cryptids -- but barista-Steve is _totally_ weird.

Steve went with some sugary bullshit today - a hazelnut mocha coconut milk macchiato. It’s good, as always, because barista-Steve is a genius, but would probably taste better if the sun was shining and Steve was dry.

He holes himself up in the window of the deserted shop and looks out at the rain running rivers down the pavement outside. He kind of wishes he was back in Indiana, with its tumultuous storms, with the way the skies just _open_ up above you like the wrath of god, or something. It’s no contest: Steve’ll take tornados over serial killers _any day_.

His phone rings. Or rather, Facetime alerts him to Dustin calling him.

“Look,” Dustin says. “I’m just _saying_ you could call more often.”

“You aren’t _just saying_ that because you _just started talking_ ,” Steve says, making a face. “Dipshit.”

Dustin makes a face back at him.

“Are you coming home for winter break?”

“I’m not in school, Dustin. I don’t have breaks. I _live_ here, like a real person.”

“You could come visit,” Dustin says. He’s sitting outside somewhere, wind whipping his hair around. It’s sunny there, but Dustin’s wearing a jacket. Steve misses the _fall_. Light jacket weather is the _best_ weather.

“Yeah, maybe,” Steve says, knowing full well that he won’t. He can’t.

“So, I’ve been doing some reading,” Dustin says, because he’s always doing _some reading_ , always got his nose in a book or in a Wikipedia article or a scientific journal. Always on some _curiosity voyage_ or something.

“Yeah?”

Steve takes a sip of his drink. He watches the water droplets race down the window. The palm trees across the street are swaying gently in the storm’s wind. The storms here are weird circular situations, never quite ending when you expect them to. Steve’s not sure if he’s in for ten minutes of rain or if he’s going to be damp for the next three days.

“-- and I’m pretty sure it’s vampires.”

Steve blinks. Ok, so he maybe, _maybe_ tuned Dustin out a little bit.

“What?”

“ _Steve_ , pay attention. I’m pretty sure all the missing people in Santa Carla? They’re being eaten by _vampires_.”

Steve takes a deep breath. He lets it out.

“Dustin…”

“ _Steve_ ,” Dustin says, his eyes going all big and expressive and annoyed. “No, I _know_ it sounds absurd, but all the facts line up! I made some calls and --”

“You made some _calls_?” Steve asks, “To _who!?_ ”

“Whom, Steve. To _whom_.”

Steve glares at the phone with his best angry-babysitter look until Dustin keeps talking.

“Look, it doesn’t _matter_ who I talked to, just that I reached some experts and I’m not _wrong_. It’s totally vampires, Steve. You’ve gotta be careful, buddy.”

“I have to be careful of vampires,” Steve says. He tries to keep the incredulity out of his voice because he knows that Dustin will just jump on it and really Steve just -- doesn’t _care_. So.

“Yes,” Dustin says. “You have to be careful of vampires.”

Steve wonders if he can convince barista-Steve to put some whiskey into his coffee if he’s _real nice_ about it.

\--

“I heard the stupidest thing today,” Steve says.

He’s sitting on his balcony with Billy, both of them in shitty lawn chairs that Steve snagged off the side of the road. It’s still raining out, sheets of it coming down hard, but Steve’s been damp since leaving the coffee shop so it doesn’t matter and Billy doesn’t even seem to notice the weather pretty much ever.

“Yeah?” Billy asks, in a tone like he’s humoring Steve, passing the joint back. His hair is a little curlier than normal at the top, probably because of the humidity in the air. Steve fixed his before inviting Billy over. Not that he had to, but -- he did anyway. Guests, and all. Mama Harrington raised him right.

“So, you know all the missing people?”

Billy rolls his eyes. “No, I somehow _missed_ that vital piece of news.”

Steve clenches his jaw, teeth clicking together. “Okay, _asshole_ \--”

“No, no, by all _means_ ,” Billy says. “Tell me all about the missing people in my town, country boy.”

“Ugh, _nevermind_. It’s stupid.”

“That’s the whole point, though, right? You had something stupid to tell me. You promised. Now I wanna hear something stupid.”

When Billy blows out smoke toward the sky in the dim light of the evening, he looks kind of like a model. The shadows on his face fall perfectly, cutting him out angular and oddly dreamlike. Something about him looks infinitely untouchable.

Which means that Steve’s hands itch to do just that.

“Well, this kid I used to babysit called me. And he’s, like, a chronic worrier with an overactive imagination and kind of into all this fantasy stuff, right?” When Billy nods, a sharp little jerk of his head, Steve continues. “He says he talked to some _experts_ or whatever, and now he’s convinced that there’s _vampires_ in Santa Carla. Like real honest-to-god vampires making all those people go missing.”

Billy blinks. “He talked to _some experts_?”

“That’s what _I_ said!”

Billy then barks out a laugh, which is really the response that Steve _wanted_ to begin with. When Billy laughs, his eyes go all pinched up and he doesn’t look at Steve like he’s dumb, _or_ like he’s about to murder him. Which is -- cool. It’s definitely the kind of vibe Steve wants in an acquaintance: no murderous intentions and someone who doesn’t think he’s dumb as a brick.

Whatever, if Billy isn’t really an acquaintance and more so just his drug-dealer-slash-neighbor.

“Jesus christ,” Billy says, finishing off the joint, despite the fact that Steve _paid_ him for it. It wasn’t really Billy’s to finish, or even Billy’s to _share_ , but that’s also kind of who Billy is as a person, so. “That’s something, alright.”

Steve waits for Billy to leave now that they’re done, but Billy doesn’t get up. He just slouches down in his chair and sighs, eyes closing to the storm surging around them.

And, like, Steve doesn’t even remember how Billy convinced his way into Steve’s apartment in the first place. Steve called him up because he was bored, because there wasn’t anything to do in California in the rain. Billy had offered up _the mall_ , but Steve had reminded him that Billy was his _dealer_ and not his _friend_ and that he was just looking to score -- which somehow translated into...this. Billy lounging on Steve’s balcony, both of them high and both of them damp.

Eventually, Steve gets up to grab them both a couple bottles of beer. Then, he makes popcorn, melts way too much butter over it, and dumps a generous helping of those rainbow nonpareil sprinkles over the bowl. He shakes it a little for good measure, then sets the bowl down on Billy’s lap when he returns back to the balcony and to his rain-splattered chair.

Billy takes one bite, chews twice, then opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue, bits of unchewed-popcorn still in his mouth, rainbow-y and gross.

“What the hell is this?” he asks, words garbled and fingers buttery.

“Dinner,” Steve says, stealing the bowl back from him before digging a hand in and shoving a handful in his own mouth.

“What is _wrong_ with you, pretty boy?” Billy says, after he’s managed to swallow down the mess of popcorn he seemed so appalled by.

“It’s basically kettle corn,” Steve says. “Everyone likes kettle corn. Maybe you just don’t like it because you’re a _vampire_ , huh?”

Billy rolls his eyes. “One _, one -- that_ is nowhere _close_ to kettle corn, don’t _front_. And _two_ , if I was a _vampire_ , Stevie, baby, I wouldn’t be able to _eat_ regular food. I’d get like, sick or some shit. I’d be vomiting blood all over you right now.”

“You’d _get sick or some shit_? What, is there like a _guidebook_ to being a vampire or something?”

“Oh my god, have you not watched, like, a _single_ horror movie ever?” Billy asks, downing most of his beer to, presumably, wash the taste of the popcorn out of his mouth.

And honestly? Steve doesn’t really _like_ horror movies.

He is _kind of_ a pussy, sometimes.

But, like, whatever.

Billy orders a pizza, because he doesn’t approve of Steve’s homemade nonpareil kettle corn. He sticks around for hours, but he breaks out another joint for _free_ , out of the _goodness of his heart_ , so Steve lets him stay.

Not that he could do much to make Billy _leave_ , but still. It’s the thought that counts, right?

\--

Steve can’t stop himself from wondering: if Billy _was_ a vampire -- if vampires actually _existed_ , anyway, obviously -- would Billy kill Steve? Or would wanna he turn him?

Does it _really_ even matter? Because Steve shouldn’t be thinking about Billy at _all_ , especially when the guy’s not there. He’s got no good reason and it mostly just stresses him out.

So he tries not to.

And mostly kinda fails.

\--

Billy shows up the next day, in front of his door like some kind of stray dog, waiting for Steve to open it.

Also, like a fucking _creep_.

“ _What?_ ” Steve asks, crumbs of a jolly rancher poptart falling from his lips.

“What the fuck are you eating? It smells like _Halloween_ ,” Billy says, instead of giving Steve an actual answer like an actual human being.

Steve stands in the doorway, one hand on the door, the other on the frame. Like he’s bracing himself to stop Billy from trying to wedge his way into the apartment. Unfortunately, to do this, he’s gotta first cram the remainder of the poptart into his face, which he _does_ , but like -- it’s _so dry_.

Billy waits for Steve to chew for a solid two minutes in _absolute silence_. A smirk creeps over his face while crumbs fall from Steve’s lips. Steve can’t tell if he’s being _patient_ or just being _mean_ , because it’s _Billy_ and Billy doesn’t seem to experience emotions like a normal person.

“Do you eat _real_ food?” Billy asks, once Steve has swallowed _most_ of the poptart. He’s still trying to catch all the crumbs around his mouth with his tongue, but like, that’s _also_ weird, with Billy watching him like a hawk.

Steve feels _exposed_.

“All food is real food,” Steve says, after he regains the ability to speak.

“Do you wanna go get some tacos?” Billy asks. “I feel like you’re a taco kinda guy. I know this place that’s got these pork belly tacos that are to _die_ for.”

And isn’t it _kinda_ messed up to be making jokes about dying, when like, there’s _all these people_ going missing? Like -- they’re all _presumably_ dead. Steve isn’t the world’s most pessimistic person, but he’s _realistic_ , okay? And those missing people? They’re definitely dead. And also Steve can’t stop thinking about them, maybe.

Billy reaches forward, with one of his stupidly beautiful hands, fingers all long and decked out in an assortment of cheesy rings that somehow  _don't_ look stupid on him, and brushes some crumbs from Steve's lower lip. And then he pulls back, like nothing even happened at all.

“I didn’t call you,” Steve says. “I’m good. I don’t uh, _need_ anything from you right now.”

Billy’s face does something weird. Like he’s annoyed and mad and maybe a little bit like he’s going to _sneeze_ \-- who knows, Billy’s _impossible_ to read.

Steve can’t even _picture_ the guy sneezing, honestly.

“Yeah,” he says eventually, after he’s done with his face journey. “But we could still go get some food. It’s not like you’re doing anything _else_ , pretty boy.”

“Uhhh, how about _no_ ,” Steve says.

He even manages to slam the door shut before Billy can get his foot in it this time, which means his reflexes are getting _better_.

\--

It’s not that Steve really _tries_ to do laundry at the same time as Billy, but somehow he _always_ ends up colliding with the other guy in the dingy laundry room while wearing, like, his rattiest sweats and no shirt. Every goddamn time.

Billy’s never wearing a shirt on laundry day _either_ , but it’s a _good_ look on him, not an embarrassing one.

But Steve supposes that _maybe_ it’s a _little_ bit better than running into someone he doesn’t know, someone that’s gonna judge him silently or something. At least Billy judges _loudly_. Always making a point to rake his eyes over Steve’s body, always making comments about how Steve _looks_.

And sure, it’s always _positive_ , but he’s still _doing_ it. So.

But at least Steve knows what he _thinks_ , because Billy doesn’t ever hold anything back. He’s the most what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of person Steve’s ever met. With anyone else, Steve wouldn’t _know_. And then he wouldn’t know where he stands with someone, and that’s kinda _worse_. He _always_ knows where he stands with Billy.

Besides. _Besides_ \--

 _Sometimes_ , when Billy’s feeling nice, he whistles long and low when Steve stretches full-body, from where he perches on top of a washing machine, blue eyes on Steve’s neck, on his pecs, on his ribcage. Looking at him so languidly that he could be eating him right up.

“You look like a model, pretty boy,” Billy tells him, when Steve’s stoned enough that he gets all quiet and pliant and relaxed. “Wanna spread you out and take a picture of you, just for me.”

Steve tries not to encourage him, but sometimes he can’t _help_ it when he’s stoned, because he’s lonely and he’s tired and Billy’s nice when he wants to be. And he’s so _hot_ , too.

“Yeah?”

“All for me,” Billy reiterates.

Like he’s much of a _sharer_.

And sometimes, if Steve’s _really_ stoned and Billy’s feeling _really_ nice, Billy’s hands trail up the line of Steve’s abs, mapping out the ridges and slopes of his body, touch so gentle it’s barely even there. Like if Billy touches Steve any harder, Steve might spook and run away.

Steve never says anything, never acknowledges it, afraid of anything that might break the spell.

\--

“Are you being careful, Steve?” Dustin asks, over speaker phone while Steve’s flipping pancakes in the kitchen.

“Of course I’m being _careful_ ,” Steve says, like he _doesn’t_ have three locks on his front door. People keep going _missing_.

It’s _three_ already this week, and Steve doesn’t want to be the fourth.

He’s only _really_ left his apartment for work, and even then, he’s already called out sick twice.

Look, anxiety is totally a reason to take a sick day. Despite anything his dad’s _ever_ said.

So _yeah_ , he’s being careful.

He’s even got a drawer full of condoms he’s probably never going to use because he never actually _meets_ anybody, but Steve figures Dustin’s not talking about _that_ kind of careful.

“Are you wearing a silver cross, Steve? Do you have _garlic_?” Dustin asks. “Do you have a _gun_ with silver bullets?”

“Do I have a -- _what the hell_ , Dustin? I don’t have a _gun_ , oh my god, what is wrong with you?”

“Maybe you should consider it, Steve. You can never be too careful. These guys I’ve talked to? They say that vampires are like, a _serious_ problem in Santa Carla.”

Okay, clearly there _is_ a serious problem in Santa Carla, but it’s got nothing to do with vampires and everything to do with like, a _serial killer_ , or a _gang_ or something. But Steve’s not stupid enough to argue with Dustin about that kind of thing because Dustin’s a bulldog once his mind is set on something, so Steve just nods and says _uh huh_ , like he’s listening.

“But I’m not getting a gun,” he specifies, because he thinks that’s important.

“Okay, I mean, it’s your life, buddy. Or your death, I guess. Or maybe even your un-death, depending on how much of that prom king charm you’ve got left in you. Which -- well, don’t hold your breath, okay Steve?”

“Okay,” Steve says, because he’s not really sure what _else_ he’s supposed to say.

\--

Look, Steve _knows_ he’s lost most of his charm and his charisma and his confidence, but it’s not like Dustin has to actually _say_ it.

\--

Steve’s facetiming with Nancy when Billy knocks on the door. Which is -- well, it’s not _good_ , Steve thinks. It just feels wrong, those two parts of his life colliding.

Billy’s got this particular _knock_ ; it’s unmistakable. Unfortunately.

“Look, can I call you back, Nance? Someone’s at the door.”

“Are you having _company_ , Steve?” she asks with one of those knowing smiles, only because she’s concerned about him, or maybe because she’s concerned he’s ordering too much delivery, which -- I mean _yeah_ , he probably _is_ \-- but he has to go to his building’s door, generally, to pick up delivery, unless one of the drivers managed to sneak into the building, which isn’t _unheard of_ , but it’s also kinda hella off-putting, so. Anyway. It’s not delivery.

“Uh, maybe?” Steve says, because he’s not about to tell Nancy he has a _drug dealer_.

Billy knocks again. Steve looks between Nancy’s face on his phone and the door, and then frowns. “Okay, _bye_ , Nance.”

He hangs up as she’s rolling her eyes.

“Was that your girlfriend?” Billy asks, the _second_ Steve opens the door. God, the doors and the walls are so _thin_ here.

“What do you _want?_ ”

Billy raises his eyebrows. “You texted me.”

“I texted you like, _three hours_ ago.”

And like, _okay_ , Steve knows, objectively, that Steve isn’t Billy’s only person to hook up. He knows that Billy’s, like, probably a busy guy, or whatever. But he at least would’ve appreciated a text _back_ , like _Request Received,_ or something. Billy almost _always_ gets back to him within, like, a minute, _max_.

“Jesus, you’re needy,” Billy says. “I was having lunch with my sister.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Steve says. “For _three_ hours? But isn’t this your _job_?”

Billy laughs. “Wow, real hard pressed, aren’t ya? Sorry I didn’t get back to you, pretty boy. You know I’d never leave you hanging, baby.”

 _Baby_ , Steve thinks, nose wrinkling.

“I could’ve found someone else in that time, you know.”

“Did you?” Billy asks.

Steve stands there for a minute, then decides that the whole thing just isn’t worth it. “Fine, just come _in_ ,” he says, shoving his door open so that Billy can waltz through like he always does.

Steve’s got no idea why Billy always insists on always _socializing_ like he does. Steve doesn’t _need_ to hang out with his dealer. He’s not that hard up for friends, okay? He doesn’t need _pity_.

He’s got _no problem_ hanging out alone.

“You wanna watch some Netflix?” Billy asks, glancing at Steve’s laptop, which is balanced rather precariously on his crappy couch.

“ _No?_ ” Steve says, incredulous. “Why would I want to watch Netflix with you? Are you trying to, like, _Netflix and chill_?” Steve’s voice goes all high, because he’s uncomfortable, but he’s also _joking_.

But _despite_ the fact that he’s joking, Billy just shrugs and says, “I mean, you’re clearly not _doing_ anything else.”

Like it’s no big.

Like it’s totally fine to mix business and pleasure. Like he just does this _all the time._

“Just give me my drugs and get out,” Steve says.

Billy _sort of_ looks like he’s going to sneeze again, but Steve doesn’t pay too much attention to it as he shuts the door in Billy’s face a little while later, after Billy’s given Steve what he texted him for _hours_ ago and nothing else.

Steve’s getting real used to the sound of all his locks clicking into place, the knowledge that Billy and the rest of the world are firmly on the other side of them.

\--

The next time Steve texts Billy, Billy straight up doesn’t get back to him.

So much for good customer service.

**Author's Note:**

> _stay tuned for more santa carla trash_
> 
> you can catch me on [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com), if you are so inclined.


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